It had been three days since the Valhalla and Sentinel dropped out of warp. The crews had started calling the event “The Collapse.” Vance couldn’t argue with the name — subspace had buckled in their tiny corner of the galaxy, stranding them without warp travel or long-range communications. There was no way to know whether the damage stretched across the Milky Way or was limited to their immediate location. The latter would be quite a coincidence, considering the vastness of space. Meager scans barely reached four light-years and comms even less. They were blind, silent, and adrift in the cosmos.

Whispers filled the corridors and in the lounge, and rumors passed between officers while on shift. Their suggestions ranged from plausible to downright absurd. Vance believed the most likely explanation was that the warp drive destroyed subspace. However, others claimed Starfleet was behind it, running some twisted experiment to test the crew’s breaking points. A few even speculated about a malevolent alien intelligence watching their every move.

Vance knew the best way to kill rumors was with answers. The problem was he didn’t have any. The two ships’ science and engineering teams had only gleaned more questions from their scans. Thus, the ridiculous conspiracy theories had spread like wildfire.

Vance flexed his prosthetic hand, the artificial joints moving with smooth, mechanical precision. The lifeless outer covering designed to mimic real flesh only served as a reminder of everything he had given to Starfleet, and he had given it freely. He didn’t regret a moment of his service, but looking back, especially on the damned Hawkins Pass, he could have done without that experience.

He paced the conference lounge, his booted feet falling silently on the Berber carpeting. Pausing, he turned to stare out of one of the expansive observation-style windows. The stars hung scattered across an ebony canvas, each dot of light representing a potential safe harbor. They were hours, days, and weeks away a few days ago. Now, they were a lifetime away at full impulse. Like the mirage of an oasis, the stars taunted him, just out of reach.

The doors hissed open, and Vance exhaled through his teeth. He watched the reflections of his senior staff filing into the room and taking their seats around the conference table, their forms ghostly in the window. His jaw tightened as he stared past their reflections, his breath leaving whispers of fog on the glass.

His mouth was sticky and stale, bitter from his earlier coffee. He ran his tongue over the pallet and swallowed, forcing fresh saliva into his mouth. Taking a steeling breath, he worked his way to the head of the table and slid into his chair with the rattle of fittings and rolling wheels.

His senior staff stared at him expectantly, with the Sentinel’s captain, Orlaith Murphey, and her XO, Commander Erin Hayden, sitting to his immediate left, their expressions mirroring his own. Vance couldn’t help but draw a parallel to Robinson Crusoe, one of the many novels he had devoured in his youth. His gaze shifted one last time to the distant stars. Just like the ships that never approached, he thought.

“Alright, what do we have?” Vance asked, clearing his throat. His dark eyes scanned the faces of the officers staring back at him, looking to him to be the leader he was not sure he wanted to be at that moment.

Marcus exchanged a glance with Science Officer Shrin and nodded slowly. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We don’t know. All we know is that subspace is…” he hesitated, reformulating the swear word at the edge of his tongue, “wonky.”

“What do you mean ‘wonky?’” Vance demanded.

“What he means, sir,” Shrin answered, her Andorian antennae twisting and sensing her environment, her ice blue eyes fixing on Vance’s. “The subspace harmonics are like nothing we have seen. Most of our scans are inconclusive; long-range sensors are severely limited, and all of our attempts to modify or work around the problem have been—

“Useless,” Marcus finished. “We just don’t know what’s going on.”

Vance’s heart sank a bit. Great, but I’m not surprised. He swallowed and bit his lower lip, a soft sting with the flesh pinched between his teeth. He tapped the index finger of his right hand against the table’s surface, making meaty thumps. One answer… Just one damned answer.

“My crew hasn’t learned anything new either,” Órlaith said with a shake of her head. The strawberry-blonde ponytail swayed with the motion of her head.

Vance nodded stiffly, his eyes heavy, and bags creased his eyelids. “Yeah, well, we both have competent crews.”

“Without warp, we’re decades from the nearest Federation world,” Commander Willis said, her voice steady and blunt. The Choctaw woman’s words hit the crew like a hammer striking an anvil.

Vance’s brow furrowed. Leave it to Abby to state the obvious. Everyone thought it, but no one dared voice that reality. Judging by the crew’s shocked expressions, Vance knew they had been in denial, pretending their predicament wasn’t as dire as it was. He tightened his grip on his artificial left hand, the soft whir of servos working the joints.

“We need to start conserving resources,” the Sentinel’s XO added. “Right now. There isn’t any time for us to waste deuterium, food, dilithium, and dozens of other consumable items.”

“That includes medical supplies,” Doctor T’Lar added. The Vulcan medical officer sat serenely in her chair like they were discussing dinner plans.

Catching Vance’s gaze, Órlaith gave the other captain a worried expression. “We left starbase without full resupply.” She crossed her arms before her and sucked in her lower lip.”

“With rationing,” Erin started. “I give the Sentinel three months before it’s dead in the water.”

“And the Valhalla won’t be able to take on your crew at that point,” Commander Kyle said, who had been silent until now. “Sir, the Valhalla is the larger ship,” she said, leaning forward and staring at Vance. “We should salvage as much as we can and scuttle the Sentinel. It will be crowded, but it beats waiting until their power is depleted and ours are drawn down, and we are dying of hypothermia when life support fails.”

Vance resisted the urge to frown. There was a logic to her idea. One less warp core and one set of impulse engines burning through a finite resource. Folding his hand in front of him, he stared out the window again. After a long moment, he said, “That seems a bit premature. We’ll hold off on the abandonment for now, but Captain Murphy, I want you to start making preparations.”

Órlaith looked as if Vance had just sucker punched her, and her face turned a shade paler. “I will.”

“Lieutenant Talon, how far are we from the closest habitable planet?”

“Mahkesh III,” Anthony replied. “Eight light-years. It’s Class L. It has a Thin atmosphere, hot days, and sub-zero nights, but we can survive until Starfleet can get to us. Or the Collapse decides to move on.”

“Not Federation. The closest.”

Anthony’s eyes went wide, and everyone else froze, their eyes locked on Vance, their mouths open in shock.

“Uh… Orvix II… It’s approximately 700 AU from our present position.”

“Sir, that’s independent Romulan space,” Kyle interjected. Her voice was almost a squeak. “If we enter their space, it could be seen as an act of war.”

Vance smirked, “And what are the Romulans going to do about it? I’m betting they are in the same boat as we are. We don’t have a choice. It’s thirty years for Mahkesh. Is everyone in agreement we aren’t making it to there alive?” He paused, eyes scanning the room for objections; blank faces only stared back. “Worst case scenario, I would rather die at the hands of warbird than sitting in my seat freezing and sucking in stale air.”

No one said a word. The hum of the ship’s systems lingered in the air like a discordant soundtrack. They were faced with a longer life that would end in freezing to death or one of uncertainty that might lead to salvation or fire. The choice was clear. Vance was right. They were knee-deep in a fertilizer pile with only a spoon to dig themselves out with.

Standing, Vance hid the pain that shot up his stump and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Let’s get to it, people. I want to be heading for Orvix II within the hour. Ms. Willis and Mr. Washington, I trust you can power down the ship into an energy-saving mode?”

The two officers nodded.

“Lieutenant Shrin, I need you to start assembling the hydroponics bay,” Vance continued. “Oh, Marcus, get one of your people to convert the lounge into a mess hall. We’ll need a galley, and they can use whatever replicator resources they need to accomplish that.”

“I’ll put Ensign Taylor on it,” Washington said.

Vance nodded curtly. “Mr. Villaseñor, you and Commander Kyle will be in charge of creating a replicator rationing system. For now, start by deactivating all the replicators in the crew quarters.”

“Aye, sir,” the Chief of Security replied.

“Dismissed,” Vance announced with finality.

The assembled officers stood in unison, and they filed out of the conference room one by one. Only Órlaith held back. She nodded to her XO, and Erin raised an eyebrow. She glanced at Vance before following Valahlla’s senior staff out the parted doors.

Alone at last, with the doors hissing closed, Órlaith took a deep breath and crossed her arms over the seat back of a nearby chair. Vance stared out the window at the stars, lost in thought, and barely notice that his counterpart from the Sentinel was still there.

“You think it’s foolish,” he said, breaking the silence, his voice soft. He caught her reflection in the glass of the window.

She shrugged. “I do, but I also agree with you. We don’t have a lot of options.” Órlaith stepped closer, resting a hand on his broad shoulder. He tensed under her touch, and she quickly pulled away. “I have your back, Xavier. Whatever happens, I have your back.”

She turned, and as the door sensor arc opened for her, she glanced back at him. Their eyes met for a brief moment, unspoken words passing between them. Then, without another sound, she stepped out into the corridor, leaving Vance alone once more in the observation lounge.